The Final Problem
by AlessNox
Summary: Moriarty, damaged but not dead due to a self-inflicted bullet, kidnaps Sherlock and his three friends and threatens to kill them unless they can help him find, the meaning of life. IN REVISION
1. Not Awake

Sherlock Holmes awoke one morning to find that he was not yet awake.  
He was sitting in his flat at 221B Baker Street. The fireplace was lit. The noises of cars drifted in through the window. A gentle light was shining in through though the curtains. And something was horribly wrong.  
Being disoriented was not a new occurrence for Sherlock Holmes, not with his reawakened interest in drugs, but Sherlock felt none of the hallmarks of waking after a high. Nothing except the hopefully temporary loss of memory of how he had got here.  
He rose to his feet and placed a hand on the mantle as he tried to zero in on what exactly it was that was wrong. Everything appeared to be in its proper place: His framed bat. His skull. His letters. The knife was gone from the mantle, but he could see it in the wall, pierced through the Cleudo board. He remembered doing that in a fit of pique after John had refused to play with him simply because he insisted that the victim must have killed himself. All in all it looked like a perfectly normal day, except...  
John had removed the board from the wall at Mrs Hudson's request, years ago, and at another time, through no fault of his own, it had been thrown into the fire. John had fished it out, but the board had been damaged beyond repair, and Mrs Hudson had thrown it away. But if that was so, how was it on the wall now?  
Sherlock had heard of drug reactions where a person was thrown violently into a memory of the past. He discounted this quickly enough. John's mug was not in the kitchen rack, and his coat was not on the hook. His absence, along with the presence of the purple scarf that Molly had knit him after his return, were enough to show Sherlock that this was not a memory. This was home, but not home. Real, but not real. Perfectly familiar, but alien as another planet.  
It wasn't until Sherlock knelt down and stared into the fire, that he understood that he was in a fantasy not of his own devising, for although the fire was burning brightly, the wood was not being consumed. Perhaps the laws of time could be bent so that one wall of the flat existed at a different time from the other wall, but Sherlock was not so foolish as to believe that the laws of entropy could be changed. Wood that burned must be consumed. If it was not consumed then the laws of physics did not apply.  
Despite the fact that everything felt real to him, he realized that he was in a dream or a fantasy. It was obvious that the fantasy world was not of his own devising, because there was no John.  
Sherlock walked into the hall and looked down over the railing. Despite the fact that his flat was on the first floor, the stairwell seemed to go on forever. He returned to the fireplace and frowned down at the fire before saying to the air. "Alright, I know that you are here. Come out, come out whoever you are."  
He looked toward the sound of footsteps.  
His eyes widened, but he shouldn't have been surprised, not really. Who else would think to trap him in an artificial world? Who else but James Moriarty?

He was dressed in a black floor length robe and a priest's collar. A picture of austerity somewhat undone by the sight of his Gucci shoes.  
"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" he said as he strolled slowly into the room, hands clasped behind his back. He cast a lazy glance around the room before boring into Sherlock with the black malevolence of his eyes.  
Sherlock gestured toward a seat. "Please."  
"I'd rather stand," Moriarty said.  
"No matter."  
Sherlock glanced at his own chair before deciding to sit in John's. He crossed his legs and interlaced his fingers setting them atop his knee. "I'm sorry that I have no tea to offer you this time, but it wouldn't be real tea anyway, would it? Where are we by the way?"  
"As you can see, we are in your flat."  
"No we're not."  
"You looked down the stairwell. You tell me where we are."  
"We appear to be in my mind palace, or a part of it at least. But I'm not doing this, so I must be dreaming."  
"You are, and you aren't."  
"What do you mean?"  
"I mean that this is real, in as much as you and I are really talking."  
"But not real in any physical sense. How exactly is that possible? I saw you die."  
"John Watson saw you die, and yet, here you are. Do you think that you could accomplish something that I could not? Oh Sherlock, don't be so naive. Death isn't enough to stop men like us from doing what we really want."  
"And what do you want to do?"  
"I'm doing it."  
"Doing what? Talking to me in a dream?"  
"Not so much a dream as a simulation."  
"A simulation... Oh, of course. This world is artificial. A construct of my mind and yours combined. The traumatic limb therapy experiment!"  
"Good, Good."  
"A military funded experiment designed to reduce the shock of catastrophic limb loss injuries by allowing the patient to view themselves as still having their limbs, but it didn't work."  
"They liked the world too much. Hated that when they left it, they still had no working limbs. The project was a failure. But the technology was a success, so I appropriated it."  
"You tapped into their system. Made a simulated image of yourself in the computer which you flashed all over the country. A simulated image of a simulated body. That's why it looked so strange, but how is it that you look so much more real now?"  
"That's because you are in the machine with me. The device allows us to create worlds from our memories and to interact with others in our created world. Most people can't tell this from the real world. Only people like you and I, who have trained our minds to a razor point, only we can consciously shape the world to our will."

"But if, as you say, this is just a simulated image, how do I know if you are the real Moriarty or not?"  
"Oh, Sherlock," he said in a sing-song voice, "You know that, like Johann Sebastian Bach, I could never leave a song unfinished. Our melody is incomplete. The song ended, but you kept on playing past the end of the piece. That was VERY NAUGHTY of you."  
"It's been nearly three years. Why haven't you shown yourself before now?"  
"Well, a shot to the head is not without some side effects. I may not be quite as ... attractive as I once was, but I assure you, the brain is as agile as ever, and that's what matters in the end. Isn't that what you used to say, Sherlock? 'All the rest is transport.' "  
"Alright. I'll assume that you're Moriarty. What do you want?"  
"I already told you! I want the answer to the final question. You found the answer without telling me."  
"What didn't I tell you?"  
"You survived, Sherlock. You survived! How can you stand it? Living day in and day out. Dealing with ordinary people and their stupidity. We both cheated death, but somehow you've found the answer that has alluded me. How can you go on living in a world full of such pointless ignorance?"  
"But... you obviously found a way not to die."  
"There's a difference between existence and survival. I'm not dead, but I haven't found a way to survive. "  
"Are you asking me? 'What is the meaning of life?' "  
"In so many words, Yes!"  
"That's not a scientific question. You should ask a priest."  
"Oh, I did, I did! I talked to Father George at great length. It's in his honor that I am wearing these robes today. He tried to sell me some fairy story about God and Devils. He made a good case, but in the end, I rejected his answer as too simplistic. I know that you will come up with something better."  
"Philosophy is not my area. If you were to talk to him again, perhaps..."  
Moriarty stretched his neck one way and then the other, and his face went completely, horrifyingly blank. "Unfortunately, he's unavailable. You see, I sent him ahead to talk to his God. I asked him to put in a good word, but I'm not sure that he did."  
"You're mad!"  
"You already knew that."  
"I can't help you find the answer to your question."  
"It that your final answer? Because if so, your friends will die, but I'll make sure that they suffer first."  
"Where are you keeping them?"  
"They're here, with us in the simulation, all of them... except Molly Hooper. She was able to help you escape last time, so she wasn't invited to this little dream of ours."  
"I don't understand why you're asking me this? There are billions of people in the world. There must be someone more suited to give you spiritual guidance than me."  
"No. I tried that route. Who cares what stupid thoughts console an amoeba, because that's what ordinary people are compared to you and me, amoebas. It's like sitting alone in your room and playing with dolls. But I need to know, Is there anything at all worth living for?"  
"Men have been asking that question for millennia."  
"You, however, have considerably less time to figure it out."  
"How long?"  
"Eight hours."  
"Eight hours?"  
"Yes, or you all will die."  
"But... why ask me?"  
"Because, you're alive! And you told me yourself that you ARE me. I know that you've got the answer inside you somewhere, so off you pop!" Moriarty walked toward the open door. He turned back as he reached the hallway and said, "Find our answer, and don't fail me! Your friends escaped harm before, but there will be no mistakes this time. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."  
Moriarty smiled then, a smile that could freeze a man solid, then he left down the hall. Sherlock rose to his feet, and rushed after him, but he had vanished.


	2. Sobranie Cigarettes

2.

Sherlock started down the stairs, stopping a floor down in front of Mrs Hudson's door. He knocked.

"Come in," Mrs Hudson called.

Sherlock opened the door and walked into the flat to find Mrs Hudson lying back on her couch. "Oh Sherlock! I'm so glad you're here. I'm afraid I may have taken a few too many of my herbal soothers. I'm feeling very odd."

"How so?"

"Well, for one thing, the kettle will never boil. And for for some reason, my bedroom has become an night club."

Sherlock opened her bedroom door and noticed the pink and gold lights. Men smoked sitting at round tables, and girls wearing only feathers danced on stage.

"Why Mrs Hudson, was this by any chance the club that you used to work at?"

"Why yes. I started as a cigarette girl, and then moved on to dancer. I was quite well thought of in my day."

"I have no doubt."

"Now Sherlock, I know why _I_ might be seeing things, but I don't see any reason why you should be sharing the same hallucination."

"We aren't hallucinating, Mrs Hudson. This is a shared dream."

"A shared dream? But how can that happen?"

"I don't know, but Moriarty is involved somehow."

"Moriarty! That man that tried have me and John killed? The one who made you jump, he's here?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Then we need to wake up."

"I'd like nothing better, Mrs Hudson, but I believe that he is the only one who can wake us at this point and he won't until I answer a question for him."

"What question?"

"The meaning of life."

"Oh Sherlock, we'll never wake again will we?"

"Have faith, Mrs Hudson. We will find a way."

Sherlock looked around the flat, and then peered through the door again. "This is interesting. I understand my own mind palace, but this is not a room that I have ever seen. This must be coming from your mind, but how is it made? Are you in my thoughts, filling up a room in the mind palace, or am I in yours? Are any of these thoughts yours alone?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure that you don't know where I keep my herbal soothers."

"Top shelf, under the tea cosy."

"Oh! Well did you know about this?"

Mrs Hudson reaches under the sink and pulls out a casserole dish. There is a large gun inside. Sherlock looks surprised. "Well, it's nice to know that even you miss something from time to time dear."

"Bring it."

"Bring it where dear? I think that with everything that's going on, I should just have a little lie down on the couch."

"No time. We have less than eight hours to find the meaning of life, no time for sleep."

"But where are we going?"

"Let's start with your nightclub."

Mrs Hudson picks up her purse and puts the gun inside, then Sherlock grabs her hand and pulls her through the door.

They walk down the steps into a cloud of cigarette smoke. Sherlock goes over to a table and pulls out a chair for Mrs Hudson. "Thank you dear, she says as she sits."

Sherlock takes out a note and waves it toward a cigarette girl. She comes over in her short microminiskirt and high boots, and smiles down at him "May I help you sir?"

"Yes, Sobranie cocktail cigarettes, please."

"Oh Sherlock, we never sold those here."

"Here you go, sir."

"Keep the change."

"Thank you, sir!"

Sherlock opens up a rainbow colored box and takes out a brown gold-tipped cigarette.

"But Sherlock, I thought that you had given up smoking."

"Helps me think. Besides, how can it possibly make a difference when we are in a dream?" He lights the cigarette, and watches as a woman comes on stage holding feathered fans over her naked body.

"Oh dear, it's Katie and her ridiculous fan dance. She was never any good at it."

"So, Mrs Hudson? Is this a memory of yours, watching your friend, Katie, do the fan dance."

"I don't think that I'd call her a friend."

"Well is it?"

"Not exactly dear. This place is as I remember it, yes, but I never sat here to watch the show. By the time we switched to this show, I was working backstage. And like I said, we never sold those brands of cigarettes. We mostly sold Cuban cigars."

"Interesting. It means that I am able to influence your thoughts. This suggests that we are building this simulation together. If that is true, then we should be able to find the others."

"What others?"

"Moriarty said that my friends were here. All of them except Molly."

"Then John is here somewhere?"

"And Lestrade, but they will be in constructed worlds of their own. I need to find them, but how?"

"How did you find me dear?"

"I simply walked down the stairs to your door."

"Then it must be the doors, dear. Go to a door and imagine where you want to go. When you open it, you'll find yourself there."

"Do you think it will be that simple."

"I've been dreaming for a lot longer than you, my boy. You can't let dreams rule you. You have to go in and take charge. Look, that's the door to the back hall. Why don't you try there."

Sherlock put out the cigarette and rose to his feet, pocketing the rest. He walked over to the door and stood for a moment with his hand resting on the handle. He looked back at Mrs Hudson who nodded encouragingly. Then he turned the knob opening the door into the office at Scotland Yard.


	3. Coffee at the Met

3.

The Met was alive with noise and bustle. Sherlock and Mrs Hudson walked through it on their way to Lestrade's office. They found Lestrade standing behind his desk, a cup of coffee in his hand.

"Thank God you've arrived, Sherlock. I've been wondering when you would show up."

"You have, why?"

"So that you can explain what's going on here."

Sherlock looked around the room. "So you've noticed that this is not the real world. Mine was my mind palace. It was never meant to be real, so I noticed right away, but everything here looks exactly as it always looks. How could you tell that this was fake?"

"It's the coffee. It's fabulous."

"So?"

"When has the coffee at the police station ever tasted good?"

"You have a point."

"So what's happening, and why is Mrs Hudson here?"

Sherlock closed the door to Lestrade's office. He gestured for Mrs Hudson to take a seat, and then began. "Moriarty is back."

"I know, I saw the telly broadcast, everybody did. But What do you think he's up to?"

"Well, you, I, and Mrs Hudson have been kidnapped."

"It doesn't look it."

"Nothing here is real. We are inside of some kind of artificial simulation made of our thoughts and dreams. Moriarty put us here."

"Why?"

"He wants Sherlock to tell him the meaning of life."

"The meaning of life?"

"Yes, in seven hours and fifteen minutes or we all die."

"What, really? That's crazy!"

"When has James Moriarty been anything but crazy?"

"And where's John. Is here too?"

"Very likely, although I haven't encountered him yet."

"I'm sure he'll come along," Ms Hudson said patting Sherlock's arm.

"So, we are all going to die if you don't tell Moriarty the meaning of life in seven hours?"

"Seven hours and fourteen minutes, yes."

"Then we'd better get working on the problem. Sherlock what do you know about religion."

"Uhhhhhh, nothing."

"Philosophy?"

"I deleted it. It didn't seem important."

"Good God, Sherlock! How are we going to get out of here if you don't know anything about the answer he wants? "

"What about you? You went to church. Didn't you learn anything?"

"Anabelle Peterson. Sat in the pew in front of me. Beautiful brown hair, long white legs, and she kissed like a pro."

"You've made your point. What about you Mrs Hudson? I thought that you mentioned going to a religious school as a child."

"Oh that was ages ago, Sherlock. Besides, I got kicked out when I was fifteen for nude dancing in the courtyard."

"Nude dancing? You?"

"Oh Lestrade, you have no idea."

"Well if no one knows anything about religion or philosophy, how can we possibly answer Moriarty's question and get out of this situation alive? We're trapped in your mind. It's not like we can just look it up on the library."

"Can't we?" Mrs Hudson replied. "Sherlock said that this is part of his mind palace. There are so many things that he has stored there. Sherlock, can't you just...imagine an archive of facts. Then we could search through them."

"Can he do that?"

"Possibly, but I need another door."

"There's one right there."

"Then, I'll try."

Sherlock closed his eyes and then turned the knob on Lestrade's office door. The door opened.


	4. Memories in paper and crystal

4.

They entered a room full of metal shelves filled with boxes of files. Sherlock walked around slowly with Lestrade and Mrs Hudson following. "This isn't what I imagined," Sherlock said. "I was imagining a library with books. I don't even know where I am."

"I do. This is the archive where we used to keep the cold cases in my old precinct. I spent hours here digging up answers. It was my work solving the cold cases that got me my promotion."

"But is this the actual archive, or is this the library I was imagining in another form? Look in a file."

Lestrade pulled a box out and opened a file. There was a photograph of a lucky cat. "That was from Chinatown. The shop run by the Black Lotus," Sherlock said.

"So this is my old archive but filled with your thoughts?" Lestrade said.

"It appears so."

"Then I know what to do. This is like investigating a cold case. I'll search through here and see what memories you have left about philosophy and religion."

"That's fine, but what should we do?"

"Go find John. And bring me another coffee won't you?"

Lestrade set out to look through Sherlock's memories while Mrs Hudson poured him another coffee. Sherlock walked over to a door and stared at it.

"What's the matter dear?" Mrs Hudson said walking up behind Sherlock.

"I don't know where to find John. He wasn't at the flat, and I don't think that he'd go to the surgery. I don't know where to go."

"It's simple, Sherlock. When you think of John, where do you go?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, and opened the door.

They were in the lab at Barts. John was there, but he wasn't moving. Sherlock was also there, and John was passing him a phone while Mike Stanford looked on. It was a frozen scene.

"What's wrong with John? He's not moving and he still has his cane?"

"This isn't really John. This is my memory of him. This is the day that we met." Sherlock walked up to the image John and looked at his face. The image stared past oblivious."

"So you store the day you met in your mind palace like a flower set in crystal. Oh Sherlock, you are such a romantic."

"Don't be ridiculous, Mrs Hudson. The truth is that we are no closer to finding John than we were before."

"Don't fret, Sherlock. We'll find him. You always find each other in the end. I never met two people more suited for each other than you and John, despite all of the horrible problems that you get into. And just look at you. You were both so young. I'm glad that the two of you found each other. It gives people hope that even the most disagreeable people have a chance to find happiness."

"Mrs Hudson."

"Oh, I didn't mean..."

"Nevermind. We best be getting back to Lestrade." Sherlock strode to the door and held the handle, risking just one more glance at John before leading them back into the archive room.

Lestrade was at a table looking at some brightly colored papers. "What have you found?" Sherlock asked.

"Looks like some Indian Philosophy, but there is something about it. I'm sure that it's relevant."

"What does it say?"

"Apparently there are four ways to enlightenment, called the four paths or yogas"

"Yoga? Oh I used to do some of that when I was younger. Had a friend who could twist her leg around her neck like a pretzel."

"Not that kind of yoga, Mrs Hudson. Go on, Lestrade."

"Well, the first way is called Jñāna yoga, the way of knowledge. Then there is Karma yoga, the way of works. Rāja yoga, the way of contemplation and meditation."

"What makes you think that this is relevant?"

"It's only a hunch really. It's just that of the three of us, you obviously embrace the way of knowledge. I could represent the way of work, and I suppose that Mrs Hudson could be the way of contemplation or meditation."

"Oh, but I never learned how to meditate. Tried it once, but I couldn't get the hang of it. I fell asleep actually."

"I thought that maybe your mind could be trying to solve the problem for you. Perhaps if we can tell this to Moriarty he will pause long enough so that we can find a way out of this place."

"But you said there were four yogas. What's the forth one?"

"I don't know, that page is blank."

"Then, what do we do?"

"But Greg, dear. Didn't you say that each of us is one of these Yogi things? If that's true, then John must be the fourth one. If the knowledge in Sherlock's brain is linked to us, then maybe we won't be able to find the answer until we find John."

"Do you really think that it works that way?"

"It's worth a try. Sherlock, we need to find John."

"But I've tried, I don't know where he'll be."

"Where does John usually go when he dreams?"

Sherlock sucked in a breath. "Oh," he said. "Of course. I think I know how to find him now."

They followed Sherlock to the door. He took a deep breath, and then opened a path into a war zone.


	5. Afghanistan

5.

They walked through the door and found themselves inside a tent.

"Where are we?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"Afghanistan," Sherlock replied.

"You there! What are you doing here?" An officer in light brown camo ran forward entering the tent. Sherlock straightened his shoulders and pulled out a card. "Mycroft Holmes, Intelligence."

"The man looked at the card carefully and then he saluted. "Sir, what can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for an officer. Captain John H. Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Can you show me to him?"

"Just a moment, sir, I'll check."

As the man turned away, Lestrade walked up beside him and whispered, "Sherlock, you're impersonating an officer. This is a war zone. If they find out, you could be shot."

"No one ever found out when I impersonated you, and you have much less in common with me than my brother. Oh God, don't tell him I said that. Come, let's follow him."

They walked out of the tent to stand beneath an over-bright sky. The beige hardpan at their feet was overblown with yellow sand. The camp was active. Soldiers milled about and vehicles drove by as they crossed to a low building with drab green walls. An ambulance emblazoned with a large red cross was parked out in front. The man was talking animatedly to someone standing in the doorway.

Sherlock walked up to him and asked, "What have you found out?"

"Colonel Watson isn't here. He went to the town this morning with some men on an M.O.M. he isn't expected till sundown."

"An M.O.M. ?"

"_Mission of Mercy. _ A military doctor does some surgery on the local children. Keeps them from hating us quite so much."

"Can you take us there?"

A siren blared from the loudspeakers overhead and the man looked up. "Sorry, I need to go. Casualties coming in."

.

"Sherlock, why are we here?" Lestrade asked.

"We are here, because this is where John goes when he sleeps. He dreams that he is back in Afghanistan."

"Then where is he?"

"I'm not sure, but the man who knew where he was works in this tent. If we find him, maybe we can get some answers."

The three of them walked into the building. It appeared to be an office and supply shed. Heads came up as they walked by. They seemed surprised to see three civilians, but whether they were more surprised by the old woman in purple or the two men wearing winter coats, was up for question. The man they were looking for was directing a group of men and a few woman encouraging them to hurry as they stacked and carried boxes with red crosses on the side.

Sherlock touched his shoulder and the man turned. He yelled, "Didn't you hear the siren? The medics will be here soon to get these supplies. Who in God's name are you?"

"My name is Holmes, and I'm looking for Captain John Watson. I need to find him right away, and you know where he is."

"He went to town."

"Then Colonel Nuthall," he said reading the name tag, "can you tell me how to get there?"

"No one can get there now. There's a whole host of Taliban between us and them. We just got word, the town has been taken over. They're preparing to head for the town gates, we need to get these supplies loaded now.

"But what about the men in town?"

"They've probably already been captured." He turned away and helped a woman load boxes onto a cart.

"John captured!" Mrs Hudson said. "Sherlock, what happens when you die in your dream? Do you wake up?"

"Perhaps in a normal dream, Mrs Hudson, but this is no normal dream."

A woman's voice came over the PA system and announced. "_Op minimise, op minimise_. Say again. _Op minimize._" The people around them seemed to deflate when they heard it, bowing their head and slowing down."

"Come on people," The officer said. "There are still plenty of men who are still alive. Speed saves lives!"

The soldiers rushed a cart outside and began loading the ambulance just as another drove up.

"What's going on?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"Captain Nuthall," Sherlock said reading the name tag. "My mission depends on getting to Dr. John Hamish Watson immediately."

"I'm sorry, I can't help you now. Talk to the commander if you must. We're busy." He pointed out of the door and toward another building with the union jack flying beside the door. Sherlock rushed across to it, dodging jeeps and lines of marching soldiers.

.

A man was staring at a map with his back to them as they walked in. He turned to face them and Sherlock recognized him.

"Major Sholto?"

The Major looked much as he had at the wedding, but he stood with confidence, and he had no scars on his face. "Do I know you?" he said. "Why aren't you in uniform? And who is this woman? This base is a restricted area?"

Sherlock held out his card. "I'm here on an intelligence mission. I need to talk to Captain John Hamish Watson."

"Watson? What do you need him for?"

"He has some information, critical information, that is needed by security."

"Murray!" the Major said walking past Sherlock. "Find Watson."

Sherlock interrupted, "We've already heard that he was in the city doing surgery."

"Yes sir. Watson was a member of the Mission of Mercy that went to the city hospital this morning."

"Have we heard back from them yet?"

"No sir, just that they had arrived. They should still be there."

"Damn! How many men did we have in that group?"

"Twelve."

"Twelve? There's no way that they were able to put up resistance with that few men. They might be able to hole up somewhere if no one gives them away, but ...Damn! We could lose them all."

"What do you mean lose them?"

"What? Are you still here? Tell intelligence that I have a battle to run. I don't have time to answer your questions."

"Major, it is imperative that I get to John Watson immediately. Imperative! Do you understand? We need to find him. We need to save him. He's a good man. You know that as well as me. We must do what we can to save him, or he just might not make it back this time."

Sherlock looked into Sholto's eyes. He returned the stare, then he nodded almost imperceptibly. "Murray, who's point on the West Flank?"

"Dundee, sir. Royal Scott Dragoons."

"Then take Holmes here and put him on a warthog, but have him put on some camo first. We can't have him running through the town in that bloody big coat. Even I'd shoot him dressed like that."

"Yes sir."


	6. Rescue

6.

Before the sun had gone an hour across the sky, Sherlock was standing atop of a large armored vehicle rolling across the desert. A short, stoutly built Scotsman stood beside him.

"You special forces then?" Dundee asked.

"Intelligence."

"What did you do to get stuck out in this hell hole?"

"I'm looking for my friend."

"Friend, huh? Where is he?"

"Trapped in a hospital in town."

"Well that's too bad. You gonna get him out?"

"If I can."

"Well, we'll do what we can to help. There's a twenty foot wall on the West side of this town. It's very old and rarely defended. We'll drive up close. You climb up over the wall, then you're on your own. Have you been in this town before?"

"No, but I saw the map. The hospital was marked. I'll manage."

"Well, we'll be there momentarily, you get yourself ready."

Sherlock squatted down by the hatch where the driver was, and a man handed up a rope, and a hook. They were traveling in convoy. Dundee's vehicle drove up to the wall and stopped as the others filed past. Sherlock swung the hook and flung it toward the top of the wall. It fell to the ground. He tried again, and it caught. The commander gave a quick salute as Sherlock pulled on the rope. Then he started up the warthog again as Sherlock climbed to the top of the wall. He ran across the top and then jumped down on the flat roof of a building, running from roof to low roof as he headed toward where the hospital should be.

He had two close shaves, one where someone saw him and yelled, and another when he dropped down into an alley where guards were patrolling. He stood still, and they went past without looking back. He snuck into the back door of the hospital surprising a nurse as he crawled toward a man lying with bandages on his face. The ring on his hand and the edge of an Army tattoo indicated that he was a soldier in disguise.

Sherlock walked over to him and squatted down. He said in a low voice. "I'm Holmes, intelligence. I have to find Captain Watson. Do you know where he is?"

"You British?"

"Of course I'm British, now keep your voice down. There are patrols just outside the building. Now tell me, where is John Watson?"

"Watson? He's gone."

"Gone where?"

"To the weather station. There's a radio there. They were going to try to call for help."

"Which way to the station?"

The man explained and Sherlock left the way that he had come, climbing back up to the roof before heading across. There were men everywhere on the ground, but the roofs were clear. He only startled one young woman who peeked out past her laundry before rushing back into her house and closing the door.

Sherlock lay on the opposing rooftop looking down at the weather station. He knew that it was the correct building by the antenna and the small weather cock above a pole containing a circling anemometer.

He had just decided where he could climb down, when he heard gun shots. He swung over the edge of the roof, hanging by his hands, and then dropped to the ground rolling as he landed. Then he rose to his feet running.

As he turned the corner, he saw three Taliban fighters firing into the building. He raised his gun and shot them, watching to make sure that they were dead before rushing forward to the open door. There were bodies of British soldiers at his feet, but none of them were John. He heard the sound of footsteps and ran up the stairs to the tower where the radio must be held. There was someone in front of him wearing a black robe. He reached the top and opened fire. Sherlock rushed up behind him and pulled him by the neck tossing him down the stairs. He fell with a crack. His broken neck rolling to the side as he lay silently at the bottom. Sherlock pulled out his gun then, and cautiously walked toward the open door. He walked into the room and turned to see John crouched behind a metal desk.

There was a popping sound, and Sherlock breathed in sharply. Then he looked down at his chest and saw a hole with blood pooling out. He had seen the sight before, so he spent no time thinking before he fell on his back. John had shot him.


	7. The Fourth Yoga

7.

Sherlock lay on the dirty wooden floor of the building. The corner of his vision was getting darker as John leaned over him. "Oh God! You're not Taliban. I'm sorry."

"John. John."

"How do you know my name?"

"John, it's Sherlock. Don't you remember me? We haven't met yet, but we will soon."

"Sherlock? Oh Sherlock!"

The room changed then. All of the walls were swept away and he was lying on the pavement below Barts Hospital.

"Sherlock!" John yelled,"He's my friend, Let me through. He's my friend!"

He reached out to feel his wrist. "Jesus, no. God no!"

The others started to pull John away, but this time Sherlock grasped his hand back. John looked down.

"He's alive, he's still alive, get out of the way!"

John tossed the people aside and knelt down lifting Sherlock in his arms and holding his head against his chest. Blood covered his coat, as the others tugged on him, but he didn't let go.

John rocked Sherlock back and forth as tears streamed down his eyes. "Sherlock, Sherlock, don't die. Don't die this time. I can't stand it Sherlock. I can't."

Sherlock fell himself fading. He could barely see out of his eyes. The blood dripped from his hair, he didn't know if it was real or fake. As he looked out, he could see Mrs Hudson and Lestrade standing across the street. John clutched him closer. "No, No, Sherlock. Don't die. Don't leave me again. I couldn't take it not again. I had nothing when I came back from Afghanistan. I was nothing. Just a broken toy soldier, but you gave me a purpose. You gave me adventure again, and something worth doing. You valued me, praised me, and wanted me. Sherlock, you saved me. You saved my life. I was planning on ending it. Did I ever tell you that? I couldn't figure out why to live another day. Then you came, and the whole world was new.

"Sherlock, I need you to live, because... I never told you, and you never told me, even though you tried to that day at the airport. I know that you tried, and that's why I never pushed you. It would be hard enough to say even when my wife wasn't watching us across the tarmac, but I always felt it, and I always meant it.

"You give my life meaning. You make it worth waking up another day, and if you were gone, it would break me even worse than it did the first time that you died right to me here outside Barts hospital. By some miracle you came back to me, and I decided, once I had forgiven you, I decided, that I would never, ever let you leave me again. I love you, Sherlock. I love you. So don't you dare die on me today."

Sherlock's vision cleared and he reached up to touch John's face. John looked down, his mouth open in wonder as Sherlock brushed a tear off of his cheek. Sherlock sat up then, and hugged John, and they cried and laughed at the same time. Then the world went grey.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He could hear the sound of a respirator and the buzz of equipment. He reached up and pushed a cap off of his head looking at the electrodes as he sat up. In couches set in a circle lay Mrs Hudson, Greg Lestrade, and John. Across from him, near the sound of the respirator was Moriarty. He was in a wheelchair, and his face was frozen in a distorted mask. He was paralyzed. His voice came from a box below his hand. He turned his eyes toward Sherlock. Those eyes. Those intelligent eyes trapped in a broken body.

"What happened to you?"

"You know what happened to me, Sherlock. I shot myself," The tinny-sounding speaker said. "They were able to bring me back to life, but the top of the spinal cord was shattered. I am paralyzed. I was hoping that you would give me the answer to the question, the final question. What is there to live for? Why should I go on another day? Your time is up. Do you have the answer yet?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean, 'you don't know?' Duffus!"

"I've found my answer, but I don't know if it will work for you."

"What is it?"

"Love. I live for love."

"Really Sherlock, can you be so sentimental? I thought that you were like me. A giant of an intellect trapped among ants. Are you saying that base physical lust is worth living for?"

"Not lust, James, you weren't listening. I said love. My friends care for me. They need me. They are worth living for. I don't know if this answer will work for you, because you don't let yourself care for other people, but it's the people who I love whom I will defend with my life."

Sherlock worked the straps off of his hands and feet and rose from the bed. He gestured to the others. "These are the people I love, and I will not let you hurt them. Live, die, I don't care, but if you ever threaten my friends again, and that includes Molly, I will end you myself."

"Ryan!" Moriarty called. A tall, burly man with sandy brown hair stepped into the room. He stood beside the door and crossed his arms.

"No, Sherlock, that can't be the answer. I think that your pet said it best. It is adventure, and purpose that gives life meaning."

Suddenly, there was the sound of sirens and a dark thin man with spiked black hair rushed in. "Sir, we have to go. He said rushing around to push Moriarty's chair.

"Wait," Moriarty said, and the man stopped in his tracks. "Sherlock Holmes, thank you. I know the answer to the final problem. The reason to live is challenge and purpose, and from this day forward, my purpose will be to defeat you. So watch for me. I will return, and you will fail."

"Sir!" The man said, rolling the chair away into a hidden elevator. Ryan followed pushing a button.

Sherlock ran forward and tried to wedge a pole into the door, but it broke off and the door closed.

Moments later, men in black armor rushed in. Sherlock lifted his arms.

"Stand down!" A rich voice said, and Sherlock turned to see Mycroft walk into the room.

"Finally! What took you so long, brother dear?"

"Ah Sherlock, let yourself get captured again. Who was it this time? The Black Lotus? Drug Cartel?"

"Moriarty."

"Really? That wasn't just a ruse?"

"No it was really him. Can you give me a hand with the others."

Sherlock rushed across to John's bed and pulled the cap off. He undid the straps around his hands and feet. "John, John!"

John's eyes fluttered opened and he smiled as he looked up at Sherlock. "Hello. I had this really weird dream about you. What's going on?"

"Oh Sherlock you did it!" Mrs Hudson said. "You got us out."

Lestrade sat up then and rubbed the back of his neck. "We found the last one Sherlock. The last page of the file said that the last yoga, Bhakti yoga, was the way of devotion or love. Did you talk to Moriarty? What did he say?"

"Sherlock, what is he talking about?" John asked.

"Don't mind him, he's been drugged." Sherlock replied.

"But Sherlock we were all sharing the dream and ..."

"Mrs Hudson please! John doesn't need to hear you fantasies. He's just had a trauma."

"But Sherlock! aren't you going to tell him about how we spent all that time in your mind palace looking for him."

"See what I mean, John. They're totally delirious. Let's get you out of here."

Sherlock pulled John up from the bed and their hands tangled together for longer than they needed to, only falling apart when someone offered John a bottle of water. Sherlock and John's eyes kept meeting and they smiled as if they shared a secret that they would never say aloud.

"Are you ever going to tell me about your dream, John?"

"Maybe one day," John said, "But now I'm famished. It feels like I haven't eaten for hours. Angelos?"

"Great idea. You can handle things here can't you Gerry?"

"Greg!"

"Good man. Goodbye Mycroft."

Then the two of them charged out of the room together as if it were any other day.

Mrs Hudson sat up on the couch. "But the machine, the mind palace, the meaning of life? Someone has to tell John about that."

"I think it's best if we just let it be for now, "Lestrade said. "There are some things that those two will never admit to saying. Best to let him think that he only said it in a dream."

"I guess you're right, but that probably means I'll never have my own set of 'married ones'."

"Oh, I wouldn't give up hope quite yet, Mrs Hudson," Mycroft Holmes said. "They both are extremely stubborn, but they can't waltz around the truth forever."

Lestrade helped Mrs Hudson down from the couch. "This is interesting, but I could really use a good cup of coffee."

"Are we going back to the station?"

"Heavens no! The coffee at the yard is awful. I would have to be dreaming to think believe that ... on second thought. Let's just pop by and make sure. Are you on for some bad coffee Madam Transendence?"

"Certainly, Mr. Work."

"I'll have my car drive you. I'm not sure that you've both recovered yet, and I am dying to hear about this ...dream you all seem to have had."

The three of them walked out of the room then, leaving others to puzzle over the strange couches in their own much simpler search for understanding.


End file.
